The Apprentice
by heiots
Summary: Joan Watson is a self-sufficient, independent woman who meets an oddity who goes by the name of Sherlock Holmes, and he causes a hiccup in her routine cycle of life. Intrigued by his offer of escape from the hum-drum of everyday life, she becomes his apprentice. One day, it seems she decides to start a new life without him. (It's canon. It's AU. It's both.)
1. Chapter 1

_**A/n: Originally a one-shot that morphed into something more. Focuses on Joan Watson, as seen from title, and her journey with and away from Sherlock Holmes. All suggestions and feedback are welcomed!**_

* * *

**Chapter 1**

_(2 years ago)_

The last of the day's light disperses into the distance and would have left her room in total darkness if not for the lamp by her bedside. Few shadows grace the room, the result of sparse furniture. An audible sigh escapes her as she shuts the novel that she is unable to get into. For a fleeting moment, she wonders if deleting the photos of her colleagues and friends from her laptop was the right choice to make. She pushes the uneasy feeling away, unwilling to identify it as regret, and wishing whatever lingering emotion and thoughts of 'what-could-have-been' would not occupy any part of her. Of course. She knows it will never fully go away. It is a blessing and a curse, to have a mind that never stops thinking.

He has one too, but it is never a problem for him. His skills are undoubtedly sufficient enough to keep up with it, along with a more than substantial level of self-confidence. All of that meshes together to create the perfect mixture. They are two different people. That is why he excels at his art, and she has failed at hers.

Without warning, the image of an ashen man lying on the operating table flits through her mind. She recalls vividly the gush of blood like a creek in the spring, the slick surface of the scalpel in her hand, the paralyzing fear, the tremble of her fingers that refused to still, and the accursed blurring of vision.

She shuts her eyes, clenching her jaw against the sudden surge of emotion. Twelve years of medical school, and nothing prepared her for that one moment where she witnessed a patient die due to a single mistake that she made. Were those twelve years all for naught? Perhaps if she hadn't become a doctor, it might have saved his life.

She stares down at her fists, knuckles white, skin stretched against bone. Slowly, with concentrated effort, she straightens her fingers, pressing her palms against the rough material of her blanket. It would all go away. Compared to how much she had brooded over the incident in the past, she's doing better. At least, this is what she tells herself. Time will numb the pain. These instances of self-blame and oppressive guilt are fewer and further between now. No more sleepless nights, no more days of staring into space, having lost all direction in life, no more wallowing in the hate of being the cause of the accident.

_Accident._

As though the word itself is capable of getting you a free pass from the consequences of taking a man's life.

"Watson."

She is shaken from her reverie, disrupted by a voice that is not one of her own.

Sherlock stands there in his customary pants-and-sweater outfit, feet snug in his brightly-coloured socks. His hands are stiff and straight by his sides, fingers curled into his palms. What is different, however, is his expression.

She has seen that look before.

He presses his lips together, his gaze darting away from hers to a corner of the room before landing back on her. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine."

She knows all attempts to try to hide behind a façade are in vain. He always knows when she lies, yet the response tumbles from her lips anyway.

Force of habit, perhaps.

She expects him to nod, a sign that he knows she acknowledges his concern, and he does so, yet instead of ambling off to his space down the stairs, he continues standing there with a perturbed look on his face. The silence stretches. His features make a contortion of some sort, and his mouth twitches. "If…if you ever need to talk, Watson..." She waits patiently as he struggles to finish the sentence. He looks as though he is in some semblance of pain, as if the words are obstructed by an object lodged in his windpipe.

Her throat constricts for a second. "I know," she says, and immediate relief floods his face.

She understands and appreciates his intentions.

He nods again, to himself, it seems, and turns away. She swallows the urge to call him back, to stay with her, and to keep her company. It is almost ironic, how their roles seem to be reversed in this very situation. She always thought he needed her to be around, to be his pillar of support, and most of the time, that is the case.

Today is different. Today she needs companionship like a man in the heat of the desert needs water for his parched throat.

She is stubborn, and his name does not make it past her lips.

An hour of tossing and turning on her bed proves her efforts at slumber to be futile. Her mind refuses to succumb to sleep. In fact, it appears to be obstinately rebelling against her attempts at stopping the train of thoughts. She gives up and rolls to the side of the bed, springs creaking under her. Wrapped in her comfy, red robe, she ventures out of her room and pads quietly down the stairs to the warm, welcoming glow of first floor.

He sits on the table, cross-legged, head bent low to its surface as he peers at the object of his scrutiny with a magnifying glass. The tiniest of smiles tilts the corners of her lips. Sometimes she wonders if he is just a boy with a brain far superior to the other creatures of his species.

"Sherlock."

Her voice breaks the stillness of the room, and his head jerks up. "Yes?"

She is suddenly taken by a wave of self-consciousness. "I was wondering if you've got some time to talk."

He sits motionless for a few seconds, looking at her blankly. She wonders if he has already forgotten his earlier offer, but just as she is considering that walk back up the steps, he takes a sudden, sharp breath. "Of course." He scrambles off the table, and for a moment, stands by it awkwardly, rubbing his thumbs and index fingers by his side. "Coffee? Tea? Cocoa? People drink hot cocoa in times like this. I've heard women do sometimes, at least. Or they have ice cream. Comfort food." His brow furrows. "Never worked for me, but we can give it a try. There's probably time to make a trip down to the store. It shouldn't take me more than—"

She stops him mid-ramble. "I don't need food, Sherlock. I just…" She bits the inner flesh of her bottom lip. "I've a question that I thought maybe you can offer your opinion on." She gives him a wan smile. "You always manage to provide a solution for my…issues."

He doesn't look at her. His jaw muscle twitches slightly.

She glances tentatively at him sideways. "Ever had those moments where you wonder if you're supposed to be here?"

He doesn't answer.

Before the silence becomes too daunting, she pushes ahead. "You know, believing that whatever you're doing is the right direction in life? All that they say about purpose, and what you're meant to do… do you think you can mess that up?" She taps the top of the table lightly and aims a wry smile at him. "You don't often get a sober companion coming to you for advice, do you?"

"You haven't been my sober companion for a while now, Watson."

She notes the solemnity in his tone. He is the first to break eye contact.

"As you very well know, I consider my spiraling into a drug-induced state a weakness. It is not easy to speak of it. One has no doubt it is not the direction a person ought to take in life." He lifts his eyebrows. "I suppose you would say I veered off the right path in life…but you see, I don't view life as being a straight line. For example," he makes a sharp turn to face her. "You studied to be a doctor. You became a doctor. I'd imagine you saved plenty of people." He purses his lips. "Then, you made an honest mistake, and it led you to become a sober companion, and that led you to be a consulting detective. I believe we have many right," he air-quotes with his fingers. "Directions, not just one. The image of life looks more like a winding river than a long, straight road. One failure does not erase all the good you've done with your skills. Even now, tell me you're not utilizing what you've learnt over the past years in our cases."

He comes to a stop, and when she raises her gaze from the jagged scratch on the table, she sees him staring at her.

"Every step is a step that brought you here, Watson, and you are who you are because of it. Would I label my taking drugs as a right direction? Probably not, but I can say with certainty that I have come out a stronger person from overcoming that obstacle."

His words become her thoughts as she lies in bed, wide awake in the darkness, until finally, the welcoming oblivion of sleep washes over her, scattering bits and pieces of his advice on the shore of consciousness where she would find them when the next day dawns.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

_(2 years ago)_

"Good morning, Watson!"

He greets her in a tone entirely too chirpy for the morning of grey skies that promise of snow. With a half-hearted attempt at what would be a returned greeting, she makes a beeline for where she'd find her own source of perkiness. The welcoming aroma of coffee beans permeates the air, and she shuffles to a stop before the pot. He has taught her many things, but, alas, she has found that his enthusiasm for mornings is not contagious. She hears the sizzle of oil to her right and guesses without having to turn her head that he's making his favourite breakfast food again. The cracking of eggshells confirms her theory.

"Hate to ruin the moment while you're indulging in your addiction, Watson, but upon getting up this morning, I noticed that my locks were out of order."

"My condolences," she mumbles, refusing to budge from her catatonic state.

"I suppose I ought to be more specific. Did you move them?"

Her moment of Zen melts into exasperation. How did she ever end up being flat mates with a man who gets his nose out of joint over disorganized locks? "No, Sherlock. God forbid I switch the positions of your beloved locks." She walks over to the fridge, yanking the door open. "Perhaps you were sleepwalking and re-arranged them."

"I admit in some of my worst moments, I may be unappealingly unoriginal, but there is always a process in which I do things, and those locks, this morning, were in no particular order."

His voice rambles on, and she lets it fade to a background drone. It is too early to make the effort to process his sentences. She mentally runs through the list of tasks that need to be accomplished today. Call her mother to update her on her life, reschedule the dinner date that she missed yesterday which, much to her embarrassment, she has not yet contacted to apologize for her absence, and drop by the grocery store.

"You know," she cuts him off in the middle of his stringed words as she is peering into the fridge. "Maybe you did move those locks in your sleep, and it's your sub-conscious mind telling you that you need to chill." She spots the carton of cream partially hidden behind the block of butter and reaches for it. "I know you're a man of details, but studies show too much stress makes you age faster." The tray full of empty eggshells on the counter catches her attention. "And consuming that many eggs isn't good for your cholesterol levels either."

"While I appreciate your good intent, Watson," he replies as he cracks another egg into the bowl without missing a beat. "You are hired as my apprentice to apply your medical skills to dead bodies, victims, and suspects of cases we are assigned to," he pauses. "And to occasionally fix me up when I get shot," he adds as an afterthought. "What you are not hired to be is my personal nutritionist." He waves his hand at the refrigerator. "Pass the milk, please."

She rolls her eyes, but complies with his request.

"I'd have you know that recent research has implied higher consumption of eggs is not associated with increased risk of coronary heart disease or stroke. Therefore, you have nothing to worry about."

No matter what anyone says, even from the mouth of the genius living with her, eating five eggs for breakfast hardly seems to be nothing to worry about, but as is her habit with most of his comments, she lets it go, and instead, grabs the cereal from the cupboard.

"Yes, if you intent to have breakfast this morning, I advise you to do so within the next half hour."

"Plans?" She questions as she shakes honey nut cheerios from the airtight container into a blue, porcelain bowl.

"With a dead body. Captain Gregson wishes to have our presence around for their latest case. Which," he does a sudden ninety degree turn to face her. "Brings to mind that I should let you know Detective Bell commented favourably on your dress yesterday." He stares at her unblinkingly with an expression that she is unable to discern, and a second later, he returns to his beating of the eggs. "Of course, let's not forget that it was I who picked the outfit for you. What with you sleeping late as usual, it has become some sort of a hobby of mine."

Is it a compliment or an insult? Probably both. With Sherlock, it has often been the conundrum. She isn't sure, so she refrains from replying.

"And in case you're wondering, I have absolutely no interest in taking the title of your fashion advisor. Although I suppose there's no harm in telling you that I think those impractical high heels greatly hinder the speed of your running ability. Just so you know, if we're ever chased by those wretched minions sent by evil masterminds, I'm not carrying you on my back."

"I feel loved," she remarks dryly as she dumps a spoon in her cereal.

"And your skirts can stand to be a little longer. It gets rather distracting for the cops. You know, they have duties to perform." He must feel her glare because he goes on to say, "Merely stating my observations, Watson. I have absolutely no issues with your clothes, but a fact is a fact. Men are susceptible to the weaknesses of the flesh." He scrapes the heap of scrambled eggs into a clean bowl and carries it over to the table, pulling his chair in as he seats himself opposite her. "Eggs?"

She declines. After a couple of bites of cereal, her hunger subsiding, she surreptitiously studies her companion, busy forking up his breakfast from his bowl. "What's this case we're working on?"

"Lovers' spat gone wrong," he states flippantly. "All I know at the moment is girl shot by boyfriend who then committed suicide. Captain Gregson suspects foul play, but I wouldn't be surprised if it's an open-and-shut case." His eyes meet hers. "People fail to realize that most often, the ones who hurt them are those closest to them."

She doesn't have to ask what is on his mind, or more specifically, who. The name of the woman who has left an indelible mark on her companion hangs heavy in the air like the snow-laden clouds outside the Brownstone. She'll never admit it to him, but there is a part of her that is genuinely curious about what kind of woman Moriarty really is to have succeeded in tricking one of the smartest men in the world.

Their conversation has come to a lull. She watches as he finishes his breakfast. Occasionally, he'd be willing to open up to her, but most of the time, he'd rather brush her and the questions he considers to be invasive away. One never knows which category a moment will fall under, so she decides to venture forward with tentative steps. "So," she begins hesitantly. "You'd rather not let anyone else get close because of the risk of getting hurt?"

His chair gives a sudden screech as he stands. "You deduce what we have and tell me, Watson," he says, voice noticeably subdued.

She stares at his back as he walks away from her. His bowl clatters in the sink.

"I'll never hurt you, Sherlock."

The words spill out before she manages to fully comprehend the magnitude of that single sentence. When she does, it is too late to take them back.

"You can't promise that."

She remembers those words as her own when he assured her he would never let any harm come to her. Any shadow of doubt that she has spoken too quickly, of making a promise she may not be able to keep, disperses from her mind. He has bound himself to the promise of keeping her safe. Can she not do the same for him?

"And yet," she says quietly to the back facing her. "I have."

* * *

_(present day)_

An instrumental version of 'Silent Night' drifts from overhead speakers, and sharp, staccato sounds penetrate the otherwise quietness of the building as black heels click against the ceramic tiles of the hospital's lobby. It is 2AM in the morning, and surprisingly few visitors occupy the dark blue cushioned chairs lined up against the pale yellow walls. A middle-aged man with a day's worth of stubble, eyes ringed with dark circles, sits, elbows on knees, head in hands. His gold ring reflects the lights on a glittery Christmas tree by his chair. His red and black plaid shirt hangs untucked, the ends of his jeans rising above his ankles, showing just enough to tell her he'd hurriedly slipped into his shoes without bothering about socks.

At the sound of approaching footsteps, he looks up, eyes brightening as though he expects her to be the bearer of good news. She is not, unfortunately. The only reason she is here during her shift is because the vending machine on her floor has broken down, and she is in need of caffeine. She walks past him with an apologetic smile and slots a couple of coins into the machine. It emits a whirring sound, and as it begins to dispense coffee into a paper cup, she hears a beep from her pager.

She's being summoned.

Picking up her cup of coffee, she makes her way back to the second floor.

He has his arm resting awkwardly on the table when she enters the room. She notes the blood on the front of his shirt and the gaping wound on his hand. "Sorry about the wait." She offers him a fleeting smile as she snaps on a pair of disposable latex gloves. She had taken a minute to clean up. "How did you cut your hand?"

"I had an accident."

The clear, crisp accent rings in the air. British.

"Were you cooking, washing, or handling any dirty equipment?"

"Glass. Forty minutes ago. I stopped the bleeding."

"Well, let's see what we have here," she says as she prepares to examine his injury.

He stays silent as she cleans his cut. His gaze hasn't wavered from her since she walked into the room. It is a little unnerving.

"I hope you're left-handed. You won't be writing with this hand for a while." she teases lightly, trying to dispel the nervousness that has settled at the pit of her stomach. She has done plenty of stitching jobs in the past. There is no logical reason for the uneasiness.

"Ambidextrous, actually. It won't pose any problems."

The self-assured way of speaking makes her chance another look at him, but she can read nothing from the stoic expression on his face. He doesn't flinch at the injection she gives him to numb the area, nor does he turn his head away to avoid watching her stitch the cut. As a matter of fact, he seems to be strangely enthralled by her work. It is the only time he has taken his eyes off her; to fixate on the needle threading in and out.

"It's rare," she mentions as she tugs at the thread. "Most people don't like watching their flesh get pricked with a needle."

"I'm not most people," he replies.

She throws him an inquisitive glance, but the expression on his face is still indecipherable. Putting the strange remark out of her mind, she returns to the job at hand, and within a minute, is placing a dressing on the treated wound.

"Keep that area away from water for the next 48 hours. After that time period, showers are fine, but try not to get the wound soaked." She pulls off her gloves, reciting the list of dos and don'ts that has been ingrained in her memory. "Some minimal bleeding might occur, but if the area starts to get red and swollen, especially if you notice that you're running a fever—"

"You don't remember."

It stops her short. She looks up from the chart. "I'm sorry?"

"You don't remember," he repeats.

There is no flicker of recognition, but something in his voice, a note of desperation, makes her take a moment longer in hopes that perhaps she would be able to place him. Seconds later, she gives up scrutinizing him because there is only a blank canvas where she sees him.

Before she can apologize, he grabs his coat and stands. "I see how it is," he says abruptly. She thinks he is about to leave, but a couple of steps before reaching the door, he stops and angles his body towards her. "Thank you," he says in a low voice. "For the stitches." His hands fidget a bit, and after a long while, he proceeds to say, "They're beautiful." Without waiting for a reply, he turns and disappears through the doorway, not sparing a backward glance.

She isn't certain what would qualify as an adequate response. She's met her share of odd characters during the night, but never one who has praised her on the quality of her stitches. Having lost the opportunity to thank him now that he is gone, she turns her attention to his chart, a foolish thought suggesting that perhaps she can learn something about that man from it. The tiny seed of curiosity has taken root. She doesn't know where all this interest in a patient is coming from, only that it is present.

She notes his personal details printed out neatly in black ink, and the first question forms in her head.

What kind of name is Sherlock?


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

_(present day)_

_The patient is alert and oriented x 3 in moderate distress secondary to chronic low back pain. He is 5'6" tall and weighs 250 lbs. Blood pressure is 115/74. Heart rate is 75. Examination of the lumbar spine reveals patient ambulating with an antalgic gait. Transfers on and off the exam table are difficult for this patient. _

Information that should easily make sense now seem more like a jumble of letters that a kindergarten pupil has scrawled across paper. She runs a hand across her face, focusing on the corner of the computer screen. The numbers of the clock tell her that it's time to knock off work, and a sudden wave of fatigue makes the final convincing argument that the report will have to wait till tomorrow. She exchanges the doctor's coat for her winter one, grabs her scarf, and slings her purse over her shoulder.

Night duty has never been her optimum choice.

As she heads down towards the exit, Jeremy, a dark-haired intern and self-proclaimed jester of their department, calls amiably from across the hallway. She stops in her tracks as he saunters over, his red-and-green striped tie just a little crooked.

"Good morning, Ms. Watson. Care to grab a coffee before I start in about," he checks his wrist where his watch is noticeably missing. "Ten minutes?"

She gives him a wry grin. "Wish I could, Jeremy, but I've had more caffeine I should be allowed to in a lifetime. I'm going home to get some sleep."

"Tomorrow? Next week? The following month?"

"Have a great weekend, Doctor," she tells him, amused at his exaggerated sigh of resignation, and bids him goodbye.

More vehicles are filtering into the parking lot. The world has barely started its waking hours, and she is ready to snuggle into her warm bed to catch up on some sleep. She tightens the red woolen scarf around her neck. It is a chilly wind that blows this morning. The weather report has predicted snow flurries for the day, and it seems there is a high percentage of the prediction coming true.

Her phone vibrates. A friend has texted to ask if she is available tonight to make up for the missed dinner date. She takes a moment to deliberate before replying with an affirmative.

It is about half past eight when she gets home, and she drops her keys into the woven reed wicker bowl on the little oblong teak table by the door. Unopened letters lie beside, a reminder that she has yet to catch up on her mail.

So much to do, yet few things ever seem to get accomplished.

Thankfully, her house companion is around to distract her from cumbersome thoughts. She plants herself by the terrarium that will need to be cleaned and rubs the tortoise's patterned shell fondly. The pet, the epitome of indifference, continues crunching on a piece of lettuce.

She heads on into her bedroom, feeling some of the tension between her shoulders melt away at the sight of the familiar environment of comfort, uncluttered and inviting. Dropping her purse on the bed, she quickly sheds the clothes she has worn to work, and steps into the shower. The spray of hot water thaws the numbness from her body, and she emerges in a cloud of steam, fingers wrinkled from its extended exposure to the water. Comfy in flannel pants and a cotton shirt with sleeves that are too long, she crawls into bed, burying beneath the covers in exhaustion.

There is no need for sleeping pills to attain something as natural as rest.

Not this time.

Her eyelids grow heavy, and after what seems like a mere second, her eyes flutter open.

The room is dark and soothingly quiet. Soft rays light the edges of the curtains pulled across the windows. Somewhere beyond the walls of the apartment, the faint sound of a passing vehicle seeps through.

She sits up, blinking in the shadowy darkness, and runs fingers through disheveled hair. The bone-weary feeling is gone. One look at her mobile phone on the nightstand tells her that she has gotten a good five hours of sleep, an achievement that she is thankful for. Anything more than two hours straight is an accomplishment.

The idea of lazing in bed is tempting, and she takes a minute to burrow under the covers, reluctant to relinquish the soft warmness that envelopes her. When the call of chores becomes too strong to ignore, she stretches and tumbles from the bed.

Maybe she'll even have time to go for a run before her evening appointment.

She browses through a wide collection of music from classical to jazz to selected rock albums. Today is a day for orchestral pieces. As the beginning strains of Barcarolle from The Tales of Hoffman fill the gaping silence in the house, she grabs her mail, the first item on her list.

Bills, advertisements promoting Christmas deals, postcard from a holidaying colleague, letter from her pen pal in London.

She tosses the advertisements into the trash, and her stomach gives a growl, a reminder that she hasn't eaten anything since dinner before her night shift. She wanders into the kitchen, postcard in hand, reading the neat cursive spelling out the most recent adventure of her world-travelling colleague. The sharp-edged claws of envy are hard to ignore. When was the last time she took a vacation?

The card is secured to the fridge with a round magnet. As she leans against the counter, spooning fruit-flavoured Greek yogurt into her mouth, the picture of Mont Saint Michel stares at her in the face. It is alluring.

Perhaps next year, she'll take a short trip to who knows where. Venice, maybe, or Paris. Somewhere in Europe.

She finishes the last spoonful and drops the empty yogurt cup into the bin.

Maybe.

The laundry is easy business to take care of, the terrarium slightly harder, but she manages. The letters to be sent out are placed on the teak table as a reminder that they have to be dropped in the mailbox.

At five, she steps out onto the concrete front steps, decked out in jogging gear. The sun still struggles to break through the thick canopy of clouds overhead. She slides her headphones over her ears and starts off towards the neighbourhood park.

There isn't much traffic at this time of the day, nor many people out in the streets. Her schedule has always seemed to be at odds with the society she finds herself immersed in. Where plenty of her friends spent nights out partying in college, she'd be burning midnight oil or catching up on her sleep. After graduation came the job, and her ever-changing schedule saw many friends dropping off by the wayside as meet-ups and reunions were unintentionally forgotten.

Sometimes, intentionally, she admits as her conscience nudges her.

A new song comes on, and she picks up the pace, matching the beat of its quicker tempo.

It isn't so bad actually. Being in a new environment. Life had been taking too much the form of a routine cycle. For someone who has always had a goal to work towards, to strive for, she suddenly found herself lost without direction. Motivation, her constant companion, had chosen to abandon her, leaving her well and truly alone.

Hard to believe that a year ago, she was resistant to the whole idea of packing up and moving. It took a while to get adjusted, even for the one who adapts easily to change, but she thrives on challenges.

Or, to put it more accurately, she thrived on the very idea that a change would magically reveal her purpose in life again.

A pigeon perches on the back of a wooden bench, staring at her out of its beady eye. The rest of its fellow compatriots ought to be nearby. If she came a little later, she would probably witness the old man with his stooped shoulders tossing feed to the birds. They never speak to each other, but there is the occasional nod and exchange of courteous, slightly bashful smiles.

By the time she finishes a complete round of the park, snow flurries have made their long-awaited appearance, and they bestow little icy kisses on her face. It's about time to head on back anyway. As she crosses the road, she blinks away a snowflake that has landed directly on her eyelashes. A car honks in disapproval when she doesn't move fast enough, and she lifts her hand in apology, a warmth spreading across her face that has nothing to do with the exertion of energy. Someone once told her she was a menace to traffic wearing her headphones out. She has no doubt the driver would be in full agreement.

The clock shows fifteen till six when she steps back into her house. There is ample time to clean up and get prettied up for the girls' night out.

Who knows, she just might be the earliest. The location of the diner is within walking distance after all.

* * *

The chatter of the dinner crowd spills over into the night, where snow is gradually accumulating on the streets. Multi-coloured lights hang on the outside of the restaurant while various Christmas decorations ranging from a Nativity set to stockings patterned with Santa on a sleigh fill the interior. A large tree laden with sparkling ornaments stands in a corner with a gold star glittering at the top.

The diner has spared no expense in creating festive cheer, and her friends seem to be caught up in the mood as well, ribbing her about her often MIA status in a light-hearted manner that she doesn't take to heart. All the same, she is thankful when the waiter arrives to take their orders.

Charlotte, a ginger with deep, red locks, adds in an order of wine. "To celebrate the festive season," she says in defense. "That, and the fact that Joanie's together with us again."

"I don't care what you order. Anything that doesn't look like a McDonald's Happy Meal or mashed up peas, I'm in." Betsy wrinkles her nose as she scrolls through her phone. "The things I sacrifice for motherhood, not that I would trade it for anything."

"Rule 4 of GNO, Betsy!" Charlotte exclaims, aghast. "No mentioning kids, remember?" She turns to Joan and winks. "Joash and Lucille. Betsy will be entirely willing to show you the photos. They're growing so fast, I almost couldn't recognize them."

The waiter returns with a basket of bread and a bottle of wine in tow, and her red-haired friend wriggles her perfectly arched brows as the wine is poured. "So, Ms. Independent, found any cute patients lately?"

Almost instantly, her mind presents her with the image of the man she stitched up last night. Cute might not be the word she would use to describe him, though there was something about him that she found attractive. She wrinkles her nose. "I've been at this new job a year, Charls. I've other things to do besides gaining a reputation for picking up cute patients."

Somehow, she doesn't fancy the gleam that has come into her friend's eyes. Typical Charlotte behaviour would be to probe her for more information on her love life.

The revelation comes a couple of seconds later when the redhead tells her about the cute guy at the bar with a mischievous grin. "He was there when we arrived, and Betsy and I think he'll look really good with you." She tilts her head. "You should talk to him."

There is but one customer at the bar, and his back faces her. There's no way to tell what he looks like. Not that it matters. Picking up guys has never been a habit of hers.

"He's probably waiting on someone," she says nonchalantly as she reaches for a piece of focaccia bread and daps it in olive oil. "I think I'll pass."

"Come on, Joanie," Charlotte groans. "No one's coming. Just go talk to him."

"It'll make up for the last two times you missed our dates," Betsy adds for good measure with a twinkle in her eye.

She doesn't know how, but for some inane reason, they manage to cajole her into doing as they ask.

Wineglass in hand for moral support, she hoists herself up onto the high cushioned stool as gracefully and inconspicuously as possible, dreading the notion of having to chat up a stranger. She can't remember the last time she hit on anyone. If she did, it must have been an utter failure because she has erased the memory from her mind entirely.

This is clearly out of her comfort zone. She looks back with one last unspoken plea, but her friends don't budge, expectations written all over their faces.

Not getting any help from that front.

She clears her throat, reprimanding herself for her absurdity. It isn't middle school. Why would any perfectly self-sufficient woman fear holding a simple conversation?

From the corner of her eye, she takes a look at the profile of the person sitting next to her and does a double take.

"Sherlock."

She doesn't realize she has said his name out loud until he looks at her, and she utters an unprepared "Hi". Her face burns, and she musters her most confident smile to cover it up. "Joan Watson."

It doesn't seem to register.

"From last night?"

Perhaps he doesn't recall. Many of her patients don't recognize her without the signature white coat.

"I stitched—"

"I remember."

She attempts another smile and self-consciously tucks the strands of hair that are impeding her view behind her ear. For someone who has spent years conversing with strangers, she's failing miserably at this particular connection.

Perhaps that white coat grants her more confidence and competence than she realizes.

The live band starts up again, complete with sleigh bells to accentuate the celebratory mood. She toys with the slender stem of her wine glass. Neither of them would win the Conversationalist of the Year award, that's for sure. She sneaks a sideway glance at him. He is examining the cup in his hands, turning it this way and that. There is a darker shadow on his jaw that wasn't there last night.

What she'd give to have an inkling of what goes on in his head.

"You have a question," he states out of the blue, still fiddling with the empty cup.

It catches her off-guard, and her mind scrambles to grasp a topic, determined to give it one last shot before she retreats to the fortress of friends, licking her wounds in defeat.

"How are the stitches doing?"

Of course her doctor persona would come to the rescue.

"As well as they possibly can," he says in his distinctive accent, tapping his nails against the glass. "I kept them out of water like you asked. No need to fret."

It strikes her that his brusqueness might be an unspoken request for her to leave him alone. Perhaps he finds her presence an invasion of his privacy.

"I'm not," he starts the moment she is about to slip off the seat, and it stills her motion. He blinks in rapid succession as though something is irritating his eyes. "I'm not one for much companionship. I've always had a…" He falters. "A certain inadequacy with interpersonal communication." His eyes meet hers, and there is more written there than what is spoken.

Perhaps they have more in common than what she originally thought.

"If you don't have anyone joining you," she offers quietly. "You're welcome to have dinner with us."

His fingers resume their tapping on the glass. "I would not like to impose."

"They would love to have you," she assures him, already anticipating her friends' excitement, and their faces are as bright as Christmas lights on the tree when she leads her newfound companion to their table.

Score for Joan Watson.

Introductions are made, and the ever-extroverted Charlotte, being her typical self, promptly starts probing into his personal life with no qualms whatsoever, and asks what he does for a living.

"At the moment, nothing of particular interest." He laces his fingers together, unlaces them, then taps his thumbs together, and answers off-handedly. "I used to work with the NYPD as a consulting detective."

She doesn't miss the exchange of looks between her friends.

"Maybe you can analyze Joanie for us." Charlotte suggests playfully. "I know we'll appreciate the insight to this secretive one."

Her friends break into giggles as she waves away their teasing. Secretive is hardly a word she would use to describe herself. There are no dark secrets lurking in the closet to fear or be ashamed of. She merely detests sharing personal issues with people. There are enough voices in her head for her to hold discussions with. Still, she admits the idea that this stranger might be able to carve her out in words is intriguing, and there is no mistaking the tinge of disappointment when he declines with an uncomfortable curve of his lips.

It is a senseless, inexplicable desire to hope that somewhere out there, there is a person capable of truly knowing another. How can she expect someone else to know her when she barely even knows herself?

Betsy excuses herself early on the pretext that she has promised to read her son bedtime stories. Charlotte follows soon after, declaring that her own boy is pining for her return.

A current suitor would have been the more appropriate term.

As Charlotte reaches for her coat, she whispers in her ear, "I think he likes it when you smile." With a cheeky grin and a squeeze to the shoulder, she straightens and struts off in her knee-high boots, leaving the two of them alone at the table.

He saves her the trouble and further embarrassment of starting another stagnant conversation when he picks up the tab. He doesn't make a show out of it, as she is well aware some men do. When he is done signing the bill, he looks, almost uncomfortably, at some point on the ground, and offers to walk her home, nearly stumbling over his words. "I merely wish to make certain you get home all right," he adds at the end.

It is somewhat amusing that he finds the need to have to clarify his intentions. One would never imagine that a man whom on the surface appears to be utterly standoffish to be capable of the gestures he has performed tonight.

"What if I drove?" She asks as he holds the door of the restaurant open.

"You didn't. You walked."

"And you just happened to guess that? Or is this some skill that you acquired from being a consulting detective?"

"Simple process of observation and deduction," he replies, making sure the road is clear both ways before they cross it. "We were all born to notice things. From a person's behaviour, a single side look, the folding of arms, the darting of eyes, to his or her everyday routine to possessions that the individual has gained. All these are puzzle pieces that form a story." He pauses to take a breath. "Each of us has varying degrees of observational skills. I just happen to be attuned to the details more so than the average man."

That is a lot more than what she expected. It is impressive. Not only has he proven his capability of speaking more than a few words at a time, but he has said it in such a matter-of-fact manner that what ought to have sounded like bragging doesn't come across as arrogant at all.

"It sounds like you're able to solve people just by looking at them. That's incredible." A biting wind sweeps by, and she stuffs her hands deep into her coat pockets. "The NYPD must have been sad to lose you."

A simple thank you or even a half-smile would have sufficed to acknowledge the fact that she thinks what he does is amazing, and she wouldn't have given the matter a second thought, but he does neither. Maybe he has heard so many of such praises that he has become immune to them, or perhaps he doesn't think that what she said was a compliment at all. Either way, the total lack of response is jarring.

She is left mulling over the matter for the rest of the walk back. Outside her apartment, she thanks him for walking her home, still trying to brush off the oddest feeling of having committed a major faux pas. She takes the first snow-covered step up, then, turns around. "Maybe we'll get to cross paths again, Sherlock," she says with a hint of a smile. "Merry Christmas."

There is that vulnerable glint in his eyes, and that uncomfortable twitch of his lips in some semblance of a smile in return. Once again, she gets the niggling feeling that something is amiss. He dips his head, stoic once more, does an about-turn, and walks away into the swirling flurry of snow, a lone figure under the glowing halos of lamplights.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

_(2 years ago)_

"These are the essential inconveniences of life, Watson. I'd much rather spend the time searching out mysteries of the universe than to waste it on such trivial matters. It is unfortunate one is required by laws of nature to perform such acts in order to function in a way beneficial to humankind."

Somewhere in the world, Sherlock Holmes is going off on a tangent about the unnecessary requirements of life and society. She wonders if it was the jostling crowd at the mall or the intention of the task that lies before her eyes that triggered the rant. It could be the combination of both. It could be neither. She has known him to rave about having to deal with the useless intricacies of the social structure at least once a week.

He is a rebel, against society and against the world. Many of his methods go against the grain of her upbringing, but she has, to a certain extent, familiarized herself with them. It is never pretty when they go head to head on an issue, yet any two people living and working together over an extended period of time will find themselves to have differences that threaten the harmony of their relationship. Whether or not the differences will eventually resolve themselves or drive them apart remains to be seen.

At the present moment, the combination of a nightmarish shopping trip, unexpected visitation plans, and the Christmas season has caused a rift between them, the suspected catalyst behind his current tirade. She usually finds ways to rebut him, but cleaning the Brownstone has left her no energy to form retaliating arguments.

His pacing comes to a stop in front of the stove specked with charred egg bits and dried milk spots. "You do know," he starts in a solemn tone as he rubs his chin with a thumb contemplatively. "That if it weren't for your utter lack of culinary abilities, we could have made a perfect Christmas dinner for your family, because, as one knows, an act done in person leaves a greater impression on the receiver. It would certainly impress your mother."

Taking deep breaths is the trick that she has discovered keeps her calm when her patience is wearing thin.

"In addition to that, you wouldn't have had to drag me to the mall. You wouldn't have been so embarrassed about me arguing with the sales promoter about his lies in public, and you would _not_ have gotten so miffed to have stopped talking to me."

She detects a hint of frustrated resentment in his tone and halts in her cleaning.

Sherlock Holmes may be a genius, but he can also be a stubborn nimrod to whom admitting he has erred is like pulling teeth. She doesn't remember when it hasn't been a struggle; for him to accept that there are certain boundaries that one should never cross even if the truth is at stake and, as much as she hates to admit it, for her to learn that perhaps there are certain boundaries that should be forsaken for the greater good.

"Forget it," she says mutedly. "My family will be here in a couple of hours, and I really don't have time to do this right now."

That accursed spot obstinately refuses to come off.

"Fine," is his abrupt answer. He strides out of the kitchen, and almost instantly, marches back in again. "May I remind you that despite being _smarter_ than everybody else, I am entitled to shortcomings and flaws like the rest of humanity?"

She knows that's as close to an apology that she will get from him today.

"Where is Ms. Hudson when you need her?"

"Probably halfway to Hawaii by now."

"How did I not hear of that?"

"You were busy obsessing over the lock culprit." She straightens, glaring at the stain in disgust. It is a lost cause.

"You know I am fixated on this case with good reason," he states empathetically.

She ignores his pointed look as she brushes past him. The things this man gets himself obsessed with when there isn't a dead body to keep him occupied. Peering in the dark corners of the cabinet, she notices dust bunnies that are bound to catch her mother's eye if she goes wandering here.

On a closer look, not just dust bunnies.

She pinches the edge of the container and draws it into the light, where its contents still remain unidentifiable. She cocks a brow, dangling the repulsive glob of mess before him. "Do I even want to know?"

"It's for science," he tells her and has the decency to look a little bit sheepish. He's smart enough to tell by her body language that she doesn't and astute enough to know not to go into the fine details of his experiment.

She carts the gruesome mixture away to the rubbish bin, aware that he is dogging her footsteps across the kitchen.

"Why do you care," he probes. "If your family finds these little treasures of mine?"

"Why do you bother asking when you already know the answers?" She makes a hundred-and-eighty degree turn, nearly causing him to collide with her. "You gonna help me clean," she says, crossing her arms. "Or stand there while your body does its obligatory rotting process by the second?"

* * *

"_Watson!" _His voice thunders through the Brownstone, and she nearly slips on the soapy floor when a faint silhouette appears on the door separating the shower area from the rest of the bathroom. "Your Mum wants to speak to you."

The faucet squeaks in protest as she turns the water off. Boundaries. What does that word even mean anymore? They clearly have none. She sticks a dripping hand out, and the phone is shoved into her grasp.

"Shall I wait while you answer that call? I have no wish for you to be electrocuted during the rest of your shower, especially when we have guests coming."

"Yeah, well, can you leave a little distance between us? I'll let you know when I'm done."

He complies, backtracking till he must be at the threshold of the bathroom, because she sees his silhouette no more.

She puts the phone to her ear. "Mom?"

"Joan," the familiar voice of her mother travels through the line. "Is that Sherlock in the bathroom with you?"

The answer is immediate.

Thresholds don't count as part of the bathroom. At least, not today. They do occasionally occupy the bathroom at the same time, which is to be expected when there is but one bathroom in the entire house, but no need to have her mother jumping to the wrong conclusions.

"He's just being a considerate housemate," she finally says after wracking her brain for a suitable reply that would garner the least questions.

Her mother conveys news that they might be a little late due to the bad weather. In the midst of their exchange, she manages to slip in a remark about how untidy and disorganized the Brownstone was the last time she came. Not this time. Today, the Brownstone will do her proud. At some point in the conversation, a dark patch on a floor tile catches her attention, and she rubs it with a toe.

Odd she hasn't seen that before.

His silhouette appears again once the call is over. She thrusts the phone out with a thank you.

"Just being a considerate housemate," he says loftily as the gadget is plucked from her hand.

Why is she not surprised he was listening in?

Just before she turns the water on, the sound of his voice halts her. "Just a little note, after you're done washing your hair, you may find your soap bottle to be empty." He pauses. "Being a considerate housemate, I thought you should know. It was the unfortunate sacrifice of an experiment. A different experiment."

She eyes the soap bottle by her conditioner. There's no need to lift it up to ensure he's telling the truth.

"You're welcome to use my soap if you like."

Silence has been by far the best passive aggressive weapon to utilize.

It is only after she hears the click of the bathroom door shutting before she turns the shower back on.

* * *

Sherlock Holmes can play the perfect host if he wants to: outgoing, courteous, and charming. It is a rare moment when he chooses to appear conventional. When he tolerates interactions that he deems to be pointless, he either does it in hopes of obtaining a crucial clue in unravelling a case, or he makes the exception for her.

It isn't often, and it may not seem like much, but it is a start.

Even before the tour of the Brownstone is over, it is easy to tell that her family is impressed by him, just like how it was when they first met her brother's then fiancée.

The gramophone plays a spinning disc of Christmas carols, a lifesaver found amidst dusty records, and they find themselves alone with little Josiah, her brother's son. When the boy waves a Rubik's Cube in his fist and proceeds to hurl it across the room, she asks if he would get it for her.

In a blink of an eye, he reverts back to his usual self. "Why?" is the answer she receives. "He should learn that if you do not have the ability to walk, don't throw things around and expect others to retrieve them for you."

She doesn't know she's impressed or if it's mere exasperation that she feels. "He's not even two, Sherlock. You can't expect him to know these things, just like you shouldn't expect anyone at this age to discuss mathematical formulas or deduction tactics with you."

"I was learning to write the alphabet when I was his age."

Of course he would find a way to make it about him.

She plops Josiah on his lap, trusting him not to drop the boy on his head, and moves to pick the toy up, ignoring his spluttering protests. She takes her time, finding it entertaining to watch the great Sherlock Holmes handle what probably qualifies as one of his greatest nightmares. He sits a little too straight, shoulders stiff, barely grasping on to the shirt of the fussing child.

"This amuses you."

"I'm just picturing you as a dad. It's—"

"Disastrous. I urge you to perish the thought."

She places a hand on her hip. "Babies are adorable, okay."

"Debatable. Babies are predictable, therefore, boring, utterly inflexible, incoherent, resulting in their caretakers having to guess their needs, and have an extremely limited brain capacity." He stands, gingerly holding Josiah as though he were handling a ticking time bomb, and deposits the gurgling toddler in her arms. "Your brother's offspring just cleansed himself. Problem identified. Very high chance the solution can be found in your sister-in-law's bag."

* * *

Dinner at the Brownstone was a last-minute addition to their plans, thanks to Sherlock, who offered to prepare the meal. She had her doubts about his ability to churn out a substantial dinner at the start, but he has proven himself to harbour a hidden talent. When she sees what he is capable of, she considers telling him that his skills are in no way inferior to that of his brother, but finally decides not to. He wouldn't see it as much of a compliment.

"It's the least I can do," he says, modestly deflecting the praise that abounds at the table that evening. "When Joan found out I couldn't be with family this Christmas, she wasn't willing to leave me alone. This is one of the few ways I can show my appreciation."

It doesn't exactly ring true, but she lets it be. The situation doesn't get much better when the topic inevitably moves on to childhood: her childhood, in particular.

"Josiah's a lot like his father," Mary Watson says with a glimmer in her eyes. "Sleeps on time, wakes on schedule. I never had any trouble with him. Now, Joan was different. She was a colicky baby. Getting her to eat or sleep was always a battle."

"Mom."

"No, please, carry on. I'd love to hear more."

She stares at Sherlock, who is intentionally ignorant of her glower.

"I've always told Joan she came out a hard-headed individual the day she was born. You'd be hard-pressed to change her mind when it's made up."

Oren, who borders between being a doting brother and an annoying older sibling, doesn't help matters any. "Once she came across a stray kitten with a thorn in its paw, and she insisted on taking it home. Mom's allergic to cats, so there was no way of housing it, but she was adamant on getting it treated. She was, what? Thirteen, fourteen?"

"She paid for its trip to the vet out of her own pocket."

"Sounds like Joanie always has the heart to help," Gabrielle says with a warm smile.

"Yes, it does seem that way, doesn't it?" her mother remarks with an indecipherable expression. "She's turned out pretty well, carving her own path out."

"She certainly has." Sherlock scoots his chair back from the table. "More banoffee pie, anyone?"

As the night wears on, she manages to relax a little, even enjoying a bit of banter with her brother. In the few moments that make her want to take shelter beneath the table, she finds that her gaze, searching for an unobtrusive place to land, often falls on Josiah, who naps in his portable bassinet. One can certainly be envious of an inflexible, dependent being with limited brain capacity when that being is blissfully oblivious to awkward surroundings.

Before she knows it, the clock strikes ten, and they get ready to leave, bundled up in coats and scarves. She watches the backlights of their car disappear around the corner amidst the whiteness that blankets the neighbourhood. When she turns back, Sherlock has vanished. Almost as if with a sense of loss, she wanders back to the study area.

The Brownstone is quiet once more sans the fire that crackles and casts dancing shadows on the ground, the darting flames creating a mesmerizing image. A single Rubik's Cube lies before it, disturbing the unnatural tidiness of the house.

It must have been left abandoned in the family's rush to avoid the worst of the snowstorm.

She takes a seat in the brown leather chair by the fireplace and pulls strangely cold feet up, hugging her knees to her chest. The scent of her mother's perfume still lingers after a parting hug, and it gives rise to an emotion that hasn't made its presence felt in a long while.

"Penny for your thoughts?"

His voice startles her.

He lowers himself to the ground. On the tray that he sets on the floor sits two ceramic mugs of steaming beverages, tea, she guesses, and a rolled-up pair of pink-and-green striped socks with musical notes haphazardly decorated on them. He picks up the azure-coloured mug and the woolen socks, offering them to her with an expectant look.

It's almost uncanny how often he's able to tell her moods without her having to speak a word.

She takes a whiff of the tea.

Chrysanthemum.

Her chest gives a twinge. Her mother used to make tumblers of it for her.

"Full scholarship to Yale, first place in a local piano competition at the age of ten, a fondness for Chopin pieces, an aspiration to be a vet." He rattles off bits of her life as if they were written lines of a fictional composition. "I learnt more about you today than what you've ever told me, Watson."

The tea is hotter than expected and scalds her tongue. She sets the mug down in silence. There is no reason to refute his words. He is not oblivious to the fact that she likes to keep things to herself. That is why their partnership works. Unlike other relationships that need constant two-way communication, Sherlock Holmes, the man with a penchant for deciphering people through mere observation, doesn't need her to verbalize in order to know her.

She watches him silently as he picks up the Rubik's Cube, ignoring the voice that accuses her of using her companion as an excuse to maintain status quo. He has never complained about her need for personal space, and why should he? For every one question she asks about him, he manages to deduce ten things about her personal life. Even though a tiny part of her resents that invasion of privacy, the unevenness of the playing field, she does not begrudge him his gift. It is what he does, and it isn't as if he can decide to cease noticing details and putting together puzzle pieces.

He carefully places the toy on the floor between them. All it required was little turning here, a bit of twisting there, and the inanimate puzzle is solved, all fifty-four squares of the six sides restored to their rightful place. Simple as that. She wonders if he views people the way he views the lifeless object; a mere puzzle to be solved, only in a more fascinating way.

"You never speak of these things, Watson."

She busies herself with the newest trinket encircling her wrist. The row of six cut diamonds set in the slender bracelet sparkles, reflecting the firelight in numerous directions. "I didn't see a need to," she finally says. "You already knew most of that."

"Because I deduced it. Not because you told me."

"Is there a difference?"

She isn't looking for an answer, and he doesn't give her one. The unsettling wind howls around the walls of the Brownstone, accompaniment to the fiery orange flames that spit and hiss in their dance.

"She's proud of you, you know," he utters quietly, staring into the fire. "Your mother."

Her eyes flicker towards him in surprise, thoughts diverted by the slight wistfulness in his voice. Perhaps despite being a rebel, despite raving against the superficial concepts of society, marriage, and the like, there is a part of Sherlock Holmes that craves for acceptance, to have someone be proud of him.

The clock strikes eleven. He excuses himself to go to bed.

They don't wish each other Merry Christmas. They do not have that habit.

* * *

The airborne plane suspended in time amidst a bright blue, cloud-speckled sky. The faint tinkling of scales on a piano. The images of smiling faces followed by a thunderous roar of applause. Mussorgsky's Pictures at an Exhibition.

_Joan._

Oren's booming laughter. The lingering fragrance of cherry blossoms. The gently twirling descent of a single leaf, caught and played back on film. The multi-coloured spokes of a Ferris Wheel, spinning faster by the second. The cacophony of gaiety. Adrenaline coursing through veins.

The paralyzing fear.

_Joan!_

The muffled calls echo, persisting in their urgency and dragging her from the thick fog of restless sleep. She fights against the grasp, her chest tightening with each struggle to breathe.

In the pale luminous light that trickles in from the windows, he comes into focus. Words tumble from his mouth. It should have been a forewarning; the fact that he is calling her by first name, but it doesn't register until later, much later after she hears the word that life has taught her to detest, that one word that wraps thick coils of dread around her heart, sinking in venomous fangs of fear.

It is said that an individual experiences many different moments in life; joyous instances, poignant ones, moments that have been dulled by time, and plenty that have already been forgotten, lost in the abyss of the past. Few are considered life altering, and they are the memories that have been etched so deep in your mind that, no matter how hard you try, they stay with you till the day you die.

The night of the accident becomes one of those moments.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/n: Just to thank you guys for the reviews and to answer some of the guests' questions. ali: The identity of the tortoise is revealed in this chapter. :) elementaryjoanlo: I read your review and hope this will give you a little insight to what goes on inside Sherlock's head! **

* * *

_(present day)_

_Your eyes flit open in the darkness. The old, familiar fear is back, the kind that gnaws on your stomach like cancer that cannot be satisfied. Much more than just the fear of the dark, it is something bigger. Of what exactly, you cannot pinpoint. Only that it slowly poisons your insides and rises to the back of your throat like bile. You cannot fall back to sleep. You feed yourself broken pieces of logic, but they are of as much use as prescription pills for an incurable disease. You do it anyway: swallow down the fear, shut your eyes, and tell yourself nothing's wrong._

* * *

Underlying the dissonance of the crowd of people talking, couples laughing, babies crying, kids screaming, is the low hum from the refrigerators in the ice-cream store. To the left, the arcade shrouded in darkness gives off bleeps and beeps from its various machines, waves of sounds that scrap their way into his inner ear down his throat. Neon lights flash every few seconds in rows and random patterns, liable to create a migraine or send a person into a frenzy if one stares long enough.

He looks away. His gaze collides with a teenager, dressed in jeans and sneakers, emerging from a second-hand shop. The boy's eyes flitter down to the left as he scurries away. He has no doubt if he scours that worn backpack in his clutches, he will find an item or two that belong to the store, but the youngster has already vanished in the crowd.

A faint shattering of glass from the café, hacking coughs, and the high-pitched jingling of keys sound all at once.

It is an accurate representation of the racket inside his head.

At the age of eight, his inability to focus and short attention span became an annoyance to those who thought his actions were merely those of an attention-seeking boy whose spirit needed taming. They, as well as he, had no clue that his senses were keener than most. Much keener. The sensitivity and expansive mind gained less praise and served more as a magnetic source of attracting boarding school tyrants, so at that age, he learnt to sit still and be quiet while his mind runs the speed of a bullet train.

Over the years, he created invisible barriers to secure a place for his thoughts, where worthless information and details are sifted out from the worthwhile ones as an effort to retain sanity. It has taken a truckload of patience to construct the walls of safety, yet within the span of one year, he has seen them slowly begin to disintegrate, allowing what was once held at bay to seep in and clutter his space, like pests invading his living quarters.

He has always prided himself for the uniqueness of his mind: the ability to be rational and logical, to analyze and carve away at enigmas, whittling them down to their simplest forms.

Perhaps the ultimate fate of every system is eventual self-destruction.

It is the natural process, is it not?

A quick glance shows that she is still on the phone. Her words are faint, much of the volume lost in the din of the crowd, but whoever it is on the line with her, she clearly does not have a close relationship with. Judging from the way her gaze wanders and the slight motion of her lips, she has every intention to end the call as soon as possible.

He contemplates her, convinced she is unaware of his scrutiny, and wonders when he came to be so utterly dependent on her. It is hard to pinpoint when exactly: the date, the time, the very second. He only knows that his life has sorely felt the lack of her presence. He distinctly recalls lying on a wide expanse of abandoned land one particularly trying night, picking out starry constellations in the black canvas sky while attempting to unravel the conflicting emotions that run turbulent within him. He should have known that it was a futile effort, that the emotions would unravel him instead. They always did.

Yet another unsolved case to join the others in his chest of failures.

She is placing the device back into her shoulder purse. By the slight lift of the corner of her lips, a smile offered for the interruption, and the faintest crease between her brows, he knows that an apology is on the tip of her tongue even before she speaks.

"It's quite all right," he says, a tad prematurely it seems, when he receives a perturbed look from her. Waiting for a response that he knows is coming is but a waste of time, but if he isn't careful, that very practice might just push her away. She, who fiercely guards her privacy, would most certainly not appreciate him delving into her mind as and when he likes. He does, of course, do so often without thinking, it being second nature to him, but he has taken measures to ensure that she doesn't feel as though he has overstepped his boundaries.

Still, old habits die hard.

They step into the quickly filling elevator. As the last passenger steps on, he hits the button to shut the doors.

"Your car or mine?" She asks in a low voice, characteristically conscious of surrounding people.

"Yours," he tells her, hands tucked in pockets, fingers doing their customary fidget against the wool flannel fabric. "Mine has been carted away to the repair shop."

It suffered major damage from an intentional car crash due to a certain impulsive nature, but she has no need to know that.

He'd seen it coming that night at that hospital: the breaking point. It had been sixteen months since he'd last seen her. When he did, he'd heard his own breath catch, the pounding of his heart in his ears taking precedence over the throbbing pains of the hand he had cut himself. He watched her, attentive to each and every detail, from the casual snapping on of latex gloves to the faintest hint of lavender amidst the smells of iodoform and rubbing alcohol; elements that awakened memories dulled by time.

It became apparent that she didn't recognize him.

He'd driven off with hidden spikes piercing his flesh and agitation in every bone. Minutes later, his car was totalled, meshed with a tree in his way. He'd emerged unharmed, but the rage was not satisfied until after he'd rammed his fist repeatedly into the wall. When the anger was spent, he realized that the stitches were torn, her work ruined. In the dingy one-room apartment that he'd rented, he re-stitched his own wound, and covered the bruised knuckles with the bandage.

It makes him unpredictable, the anger. It seldom shows its face beyond the boundaries of his mind, simmering beneath the surface beneath the calm exterior that he assumes. It lets itself be known as and when it likes, boasting its power over him in the occasionally lashing out when he is alone. He sees it in the toppled stacks of disorganized books lying unread in his room, the faint outline of footprints layered atop each other on the wall, and the little spider-web cracks in the mirror.

The red, raw knuckles, the dark circles, the bloodshot eyes.

And before he destroyed the mirror, lurking somewhere behind the anger, he saw it.

The guilt.

With it came the darkness, beckoning to him, tempting him to give himself up to sweet oblivion. It came back with a vengeance that Christmas, as he sat there at the bar, waiting for the opportune moment to bump into her. He, the man of details, overestimated his abilities, pitting his strength against addiction and nearly did disappear back into the abyss. It was impeccable timing, her showing up when she did, reeling him back in to safety at the last minute.

Where would he be now if she hadn't shown, if he'd somehow made a miscalculation?

"Here it is," she says as they stop by a black Nissan. He slides in, detecting the citrus fragrance of the air freshener. He scans the interior, noting the absence of any objects of sentiment. None of that junk he sees people fill their cars up with: no fluffy stuffed toys positioned in neat lines, no bumper stickers that he noticed, nothing hanging from the rearview mirror.

Neat, clean, impersonal.

"You were pretty good at the bowling alley," she says as she shifts the gears, and they inch forward. "I never would've pegged you as a sports aficionado."

"I'm not. I merely observed the players around me, judged the position and the speed required for optimal result, and applied it to my form. Simple calculations. Unfortunately, sports require more than just intellectual skills. I fell short of strikes due to a lack of muscle memory with said sport." He pauses. "You are quite proficient at it, I see."

He hears an amused expelling of breath. "I don't bowl much. I don't play many sports even. What I know, I learn from the games I watch, books I read, medical cases. I don't really have time to play. I got lucky today, I guess." They slow to a stop before a red light. "Thanks for accompanying me today. I don't usually go to these gatherings, but…"

"You feel obliged to."

Catching her startled glance, he purses his lips and decides to garner a sudden interest in the passing pedestrians before them.

As mentioned, old habits die hard.

He counts eight beats before she decides the silence would be too awkward if it drags out any longer. "So it's true that you managed to complete an entire book of crossword puzzles within a day?" she starts again, on a safer topic this time. "Jeremy was impressed with that."

It was two books, to be precise, within the span of three hours when boredom was quite literally driving him out of his mind. However, Jeremy, as she so fondly calls him, comes across as an individual who would not take his word for it. Call it a hunch, a vibe, the result of years of reading people. For some reason, he decided to water it down for the man. Certainly not something he does often, or at all, but he's extracted a form of pleasure in fooling the man who seemed to have charmed the socks off every person at the gathering, including Watson.

All, but him.

Accolades and good looks one may have plenty of, but it does not speak much for one's character. There's something about that man that grates on his nerves.

He shifts in his seat. The needles under his skin resist his attempt to wish them away.

She glances at him. "Are you okay? You seem…" she taps a finger on the steering wheel. "I don't know. You didn't pull a muscle or anything during the game, did you?"

"I might have over-exerted myself," he replies. "I am seldom an active participant in strenuous activities. Might be the cause."

They park in an empty lot down the street that her place is located on. He lets her lead the way to her apartment even though he is able to make his own way there blindfolded. For thirteen days, he has familiarized himself with the life she has led without him: the route she takes to work and back home, the evening jogs, the habitual chat with the old man in the park, and the rare trip she takes to town when she isn't on the job.

On the surface, it might seem like not much as changed, and yet everything has.

"It's not huge," she says as she inserts the key into the slot and pushes the door open. "But it's my safe haven."

He steps in, and details lodge into his brain within a matter of seconds. The furnishings match with a style that he recognizes as distinctly hers: not showy, but modestly classy. A 32-inch flat screen television stands atop a wide solid black cabinet, likely to house her collection of DVDs, music, as well as a player. Two tall, dark speakers stand at attention like trained soldiers by its sides. The leather couch looks and smells as though it just arrived from the furniture shop. A glass table stands on a hand-knotted wool rug of rust, gold, and brown hues, revealing a small stack of magazines, Scientific American and National Geographic, below the transparent surface. Shoes are placed neatly on the rack: heels on top, sandals, running shoes, and flip-flops at the bottom. He notes with particular interest that on the three side tables he has seen, there are no picture frames.

His sweeping gaze stops at the terrarium, as well as his thoughts.

"That's Clyde," she tells him after dropping her keys into a wide, weaved bowl. He picks up feet that are suddenly heavy as lead, and they stop before the enclosure. "I've had him for about three years now." He hears the affection in her voice. "He's been a great companion."

He blinks, the sharp edges of his teeth cutting into flesh. His throat works to expel non-existent words before he accepts that there is nothing he intends to say. He turns away.

Carnations: still wrapped in their pink and white crepe paper, left on the study table in a hurry. He dismisses the thought that they are meant for her patient's death anniversary as soon as he spots the card lying beside.

They were not bought _by_ her. They were bought _for_ her.

He is unable to point out the order of which a particular thought or emotion occurred first, or if it all converged at once. Perhaps it started that very night in the ER, thirteen nights ago, the growing sense of uneasiness in the pit of his stomach, the constant unpleasant sensation of needles pricking his skin. The guilt that still skulks in that broken reflection of his, guilt that nibbles at the edges of his mind, and the emotions feeding on the insidious voice that tells him his reappearance in her life is a misstep on his part.

Perhaps it is. He sees now the revelation with startling clarity; that Joan Watson has moved on with her life while his has come to a complete standstill.

There are no imprecations that flood his head, no sense of fulfillment at being enlightened, no compelling urge to seek for solutions. There is only a sense of total emptiness, of abandonment, and the one thought that he is mourning the loss of someone who clearly doesn't need him.

Not just _someone_, but one who used to be his sober companion.

Apprentice. Friend.

Partner.

The terms mock him now. He tastes blood in his mouth: metallic, bitter.

Through the fog of emotions clouding his head, a warmth breaks through: the warmth of a hand on his arm. He reads a mixture of questions and concern in her eyes. How often has she offered him comfort in the form of affection, a touch like soothing salve on an angry wound?

He catches the scent of lavender and lilac petals, the fragrance a tantalizing familiarity. Comfort. He feels the throbbing of his head start to ebb away. The tension melts away, as does the frustration in the slow expelling of breath.

What is that intangible element about this woman who has always been able to pull him back up on his feet whenever he goes into a tailspin, and why can his mind not grasp and solve this riddle?

He is weary of thoughts with no answers. The influx of emotions crashes over him like waves, and he finds no strength or will to fight the current. Why not accept that he is a drowning man?

He doesn't know who leans in first. Perhaps it is simultaneous. He cups her face, the coolness of her skin against the heat of his palm, and imagines her kiss washing away the guilt that stains his conscience. A fleeting thought darts in and questions if what he's doing is against his better judgment. It fades as she returns pressure for pressure on his lips.

He hopes she does not taste the bitterness on his tongue.

In her room, his fingers trace the fine lines on her lower back, caressing the sea-green ink and cursive letters. It almost feels like going back, back to the Brownstone.

Almost akin to a shot of heroine.

Her lips seek his out again. His hands tangle in her hair, silky blackness spread out on white pillow. Somewhere at the back of his mind, he is faintly aware that his brusqueness might leave marks on her skin in the morning, but the barely audible whimpers urge him on, driving the concern from his mind until all that's left is her name drumming a rhythm in his head.

After, as she lies beside him, he gazes at her sleeping form, too fixated to tear his eyes away. Gentle breathing punctuates the stillness of the room. He finds the sounds therapeutic, settling his frayed nerves. On a sudden impulse, he lifts a tentative hand and carefully brushes the hair back from her face. Affection is not a language he is fluent in, but perhaps in time to come, he will understand the way it works. His touch lingers on her cheek, and he is entranced by how different the strong, feisty, intelligent Watson appears in slumber.

Or perhaps the word to use is vulnerable.

His eyes wander, running down her arm and stops at the thin lines of broken skin where his nails had drawn blood. He blinks, taking in what he has done, and he pulls his hand away.

The curtains flutter slightly as a draft of wind meanders into the room, and that one voice, like a wisp of smoke, seeps into his head.

_You didn't come back for her, Sherlock Holmes. You came back for you. Because you needed her. _

_It has always been about you, hasn't it?_

The prickling beneath his skin starts up again.

* * *

A ray of golden sunshine bravely creeps across the kitchen table towards a hand. She inches a finger into it, feeling the warmth on her skin, then scrutinizes him as he so thoughtfully fills her glass with orange juice. Lots of pulp.

He sets the container on the table. Nearly empty, judging from the sound of it.

She thought he'd left when she got up this morning. Her bed was empty, and she heard no noises from the outside. Turns out he hadn't. After a quick exploration before the mirror in the bathroom and grimacing a little at the number of bruising patches on her body, she donned a pair of shorts and a tank top. She found him sitting on the couch in the living room, intensely staring at the table, or rather, at her pet tortoise, which had been plucked out of its terrarium and was very gradually crawling across the glass surface. "I've made breakfast," he said without looking at her.

Now he sits with her at the table, but doesn't eat. His eyes flicker to her left upper arm.

She follows the direction of his gaze. It's a purple-blue mark the size of a hand.

A man's hand, to be exact.

"It happens," she says, putting her arms under the table as though it might help take his attention off the mark he had inflicted. "I bruise easily."

"No, it doesn't," he states in a strained voice. "I'm not usually…I don't…" he falters, the same conflicted look she'd seen on his face last night re-appearing. Then, it clears up, and she wonders if perhaps she'd imagined it all. He pushes his chair back, straightening slumped shoulders. "I have a couple of errands that I need to run. Can I help you with something? Perhaps get more orange juice at the store, or drop a parcel off at the post office for you?"

She shakes off the odd sensation and goes along with his change of subject. "Yeah, actually, you can." She dusts the crumbs off her hands before disappearing from the kitchen. When she returns, she has a white envelope in her hand with a neatly written address. "It goes to London. Express Mail."

"I've got it."


End file.
